


Broken Spirits

by Be_the_Spark



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Friendship, Multi, Romance, suspense/mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_the_Spark/pseuds/Be_the_Spark
Summary: Queenie Goldstein’s sister Tina is the Auror of the family, but after Tina has been ordered to cease investigating a notorious wizard family, Queenie takes it upon herself to help out. Meanwhile Jacob Kowalski searches for answers of his own; and overseas, Newt Scamander may have found the missing piece of the puzzle. Can he reach his friends in time?





	1. Speakeasy Or Not At All

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters are *invented by/the property* of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I'm just sneaking into their playground for a bit.

New York, 1927

 

The man outside the rust-checkered midnight establishment was nervous. With a club that relied on criminal activity, Dirkwood Street yielded hesitation to the typical sort. It had all the charm of an obituary and none of its rest-in-peace sentiments. But for the veteran waiting around an aesthetically-suffering speakeasy, he was more concerned about the music. Relentless, brassy trumpets, and clattering drums - the overture theme that would play when the authorities looking for the source of that sound arrested Jacob Kowalski. One sight of Goldie made it all worth it, though. All honey curls and rosy ribbon lips aside, she was a true light and worthy of much greater catches than him. So yeah, he'd risk an arrest or two.

"Just so long as no one axe-murders me, right?" he said aloud, his chuckle released as an icy breath.

The rendezvous location was crude but necessary; at least, that was the impression for which Goldie had seemingly aimed. "We just know a lotta people that wouldn't like us talkin' and stuff," she'd told him, although her subdued warmth was always more sweet than bitter. "Is that like a Romeo and Juliet deal?" Jacob had asked. And then, turning an expression from puzzled into delight the way only Goldie could, she beamed. "Oh, I do like that! Goodness, I'll have to read that one." And then Jacob's expression had turned from delighted to puzzled.

"That's okay," he said now at the door, bobbing up and down to keep his limbs from freezing together. Despite the icicles forming in his bones, he smiled. The sound of shoes scuffing the pavement above lit a wick of hope in his heart. "No matter what she won't say, she's still the best to ever happen..." Jacob's voice trailed off suddenly, the idiom of having someone walking over your grave splashing on him like a bleak curtain of water. The skin around his arms felt tight and cold, and he didn't want to move at all, but for his drawn curiousity. His feet took him up the stairs that led away from the underground, one stiff step at a time, until he was on the main Dirkwood Street. Dark. Open. Empty -

Almost Empty. An old woman, hidden in a bundle of brown felt and snow, sat on a street bench. She was hugging her knees, her coat continuing to collect more and more snowflakes, and at first Jacob assumed she was doing so for warmth. But as he scrounged his brain for ideas on where to find some decent blankets, he heard a sob cut through the night. It hurt like a splinter, digging deeper and worrying at Jacob until he was over there, searching himself for a handkerchief. "Are you okay, Ma'am? Ma'am? I'm sorry," he said at once, startled by a high-pitch moan. Was that more of a scream or a hiccup?

"Ah..." he tried again, wondering how comforting strangers worked. "Isn't there someone who's missing you right now? I could help you get home," he offered, though selfishly hoping that this distraught granny would have a long-lost fairy godmother turn up right then to grant her blankets, wealth, and kittens. Goldie was running late by three minutes.

At least now the woman had stopped crying long enough to see Jacob. Her pale blue eyes were as clouded as the moon, and their gaze was alarmingly futile. As his last resort, Jacob withdrew a paper bag of miniature pies that he had been carrying around in his jacket. "I have a bakery," he offered weakly. A bone-white hand accepted the bag, which was progress - however, the crying also started up again, which was not.

 _Oh jeez_. Jacob thought he ought to go, as he was clearly not making matters better here. But he took a seat next to the morose Mother Hubbard and drummed his frost-stung knuckles against his knee. With a sniff, she said finally, "It's all gonna end." "What?" "The world," she insisted. "We're going to lose everything." She turned to him, her sparse brows raised in challenge. "It sounds crazy, but it's not, I'm telling you."

What could he even say to such a statement? Agreeing with her would only affirm her grief, and anything that made it sound like he thought she was nuts would make her grief even worse. After what seemed like a moment too long, Jacob coughed needlessly and told her, "You ever hear of the Great Dame of Dahlia?"

She frowned.

"No? Okay, well Dahlia and I, we go way back. She was one of those palm readers; every now and then she'd cast a big prediction for mankind." Jacob was rambling, completely unsure what reaction his story would land on. "Anyways, she told me we were all good for at least another hundred years."

"Really?" the woman said, considering. "You believe all of her predictions then?"

Jacob wasn't a liar, so he admitted, "Well not all of them have happened. I mean, I've never been an escaped convict and Wall Street obviously ain't gonna to crash anytime soon, so..." He sighed. He was finally done. "Anyways, my name is Jacob. Kowalski. And if you need me, I'll be over at that club. But - don't tell anyone else that Jacob Kowalski is over at the club, all right?" he added hastily, remembering that the law would not be his friend if it raided Dirkwood Street. The lady nodded, something undisclosed and lost riding in her countenance. "Thank you, but I can feel someone coming for me. Won't be long."

The wording struck an odd nerve in Jacob, as if he understood but didn't really want to. With an uncertain smile and wave, he tipped his fingers to his hat and headed back for the speakeasy. "Jacob?" Surprised, Jacob turned around.

"My name is Margo Ramseth. Thank you for the pastry bag." He waited, but Margo seemed to have nothing left to say. She also seemed to be no happier than she had been when he'd first gone over to her. Maybe when his evening with Goldie was done, Jacob would return to check on Margo. Yet, with each step he made back to the door, the lines between his priorities blurred further into obscurity. He shook his head, willing forth a wry chuckle. "Not the end, at least for another hundred years."

 

Short of dire emergency, Queenie didn't do "fashionably late." But the coffee and paperwork at the office wouldn't deliver themselves, and a girl had to eat. The gentlemen to whom she catered were very nice about it - they were always very nice, because they liked having her around - and at one point they noticed her fret with each passing tick of the clock, hence told her she could go home early. The trouble was Abernathy - he was a little piece of work forged out of ego and chronic suspicion. And she didn't need to read his mind to sense what he was suspecting, although it did help to stay a step or two ahead. Anyway, Queenie decided it was smarter to stick with her schedule than allow her box of secret romantic activities open to the chance of interrogation. So, she worked. Tina always worked later than her, so Queenie couldn't justify any complaints.

Then, back at home, things got more complicated. Or, interesting. Interesting was more apt, more kind. She found the letter first, by accident.

 

_Dear Tina,_

_I offer my most sincere apologies for failing to answer your letter promptly. I received it while in the care of Healers in Egypt, whose attention I required after I foolishly neglected a warning about disturbing a “mummy” tomb. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d never heard of one; they seem to be a Muggle-invented creature born of Necromancy and bandages. A curse was allegedly placed on the seal of the tomb, yet upon entry I fell susceptible to thousand year-contaminated air and needed twelve days in the infirmary to recover from the resulting illness._

_Apart from that, little else has been as exciting as my trip to New York. I do worry about Frank, though. Would you please keep me informed as to whether you have heard any Muggles talk about unusual storms and giant eagles?_

_I have enclosed a copy of my manuscript - as of yet it's unpublished, so I am still due to present my first-edition to you in person. I am discovering new things to write about every week, so I hardly know when that will be. Still I hope this may come as assistance to you at some point, despite MACUSA's stance on magical animals._

_I'd like to hear from you soon, and know that you are well._

_Kind regards,_

_Newt Scamander_

 

The letters were faintly penned, as though they were scrawled with the intent to say more but came up short – or rather, restrained. Newt Scamander’s handwriting said much about him, but nothing that Queenie couldn’t have figured out on her own. It was funny how her older sister could dreamwalk the road from home to MACUSA headquarters thinking about little things like the small light behind his green eyes, or the way he’d tilt like he was trying to catch a falling Christmas tree ornament around other humans – but when it came to what the guy thought of her…well, Tina had no idea.

 _Poor big sis_ , thought Queenie. _All you’ve gotta do is ask._

Creasing the folds of the note with her fingernails, she'd slipped it back inside its envelope. With a graceful cast of her wand, she wrapped herself up in a short dress, its dark sequins ranging in three shades of sapphire blue. The fronts of her golden locks twisted themselves back loosely, and because Queenie disliked hairpins, an enchantment held them in place. When she felt ready to face her full-length mirror, she'd arched an eyebrow, considering. “Not bad,” she decided, practicing a wink. It failed to come across as natural.

A sad smile caught at her lips. “Maybe I’ll just ditch the boss, Teenie," she whispered. "You and me, we’d go find ourselves some cupids and save us from all the heartache.” Her rhetoric had yielded no reassurance, however - when it came to a heart’s desire, Tina wouldn’t want anyone else. Just like Queenie wouldn’t want anyone else.

“Ohhh,” Queenie had said impatiently, realizing that she was going to be late. The slate gray sky was already filling its way through the Goldstein sisters’ apartment. It figured that of all things to get in her way, it would be her own home. The apartment was dim on a good day, dismal on a bad one. At the moment, one could barely see the articles or clothing strewn about, or the leftover dishes that Tina had insisted she would take care of. And the wax candle stubs – electricity was a foreign guest here, which meant that – _Queenie, you silly idio_ t, she thought suddenly with a giggle, and once again her wand flicked, lighting a fierce orange flame in every candle she could find. She might as well be marrying a No-Maj already, seeing as how she was already starting to experience home life without the conveniences of being a witch. But as the candles began to wash the entire room in their wavering lights, a sort of unpleasant shadow tugged at Queenie’s thoughts. There was something Tina wanted – no, something Tina didn’t want, something to do with candles in the apartment.

That was the unfortunate thing with being able to read other people’s thoughts – if you wanted to keep most of your marbles, you had to put some aside. Queenie used a Penseive a few times a week, pulling out specific thoughts and memories and dropping them into their own little collective pool. She was willing to bet at the moment that whatever Tina had warned her about was floating in her Penseive. Pouting to herself about the time, Queenie went to her room. Her Penseive was a shallow, blue-stained glass dish resting on the surface of her vanity cabinet. Its shining contents rippled a lake under sunlight, yet the images were murky. That was, until she leaned over her own reflection. "C'mon," she muttered. "Show me what Tina said about the candles." The reflection of her face swirled like ink until it faded into the picture of a fireplace mantle. The flames within were barely kindled, but a voice in the background said, _"Lumos_ ," and the room brightened in a white glow. The view had turned slowly, taking in the burgundy carpet, posh leather chair, decaying corpse in the chair -

Queenie's hand had gone to her mouth - whether to halt herself from gasping or being sick, she didn't have time to think about, because she saw two men and a woman stepping around the dead body, wands in hand. Aurors. "No evidence of a Death Curse," said the woman, her voice ehoing faintly in the Pensieve. "Maybe it's a No-Maj crime."

"A No-Maj couldn't kill one of us," answered one of the men. He sounded uncertain. "Natural causes?"

"Like what?" spoke a new voice, out of sight but louder than the others. It was familiar, too. "Juniper Wiseman was healthy, probably healthier than you, sir."

"Physically," said the second man. "But we've all heard about his black moods, his increasing reclusion. Last thing I heard, he was trying to will away his estate to a No-Maj at a newspaper stand."

"Suicide." The owner of the previous voice walked into view - a woman wearing a knit hat on her dark hair. "You're saying Mr. Wiseman did this to himself?"

"What else would you think, Goldstein?" the other man had asked.

Queenie had gasped, her hand forgetting to stop it this time. She backed away from the Penseive, stunned and at a total loss for response. Tina was investigating a murder. She had used Occlumency to hide from Queenie that she was investigating a murder. Tina had used Queenie's Penseive.

The empty apartment suddenly felt very crowded. All too happy to have been leaving just then, Queenie took one last doubtful look at the apartment. Half of Tina's message came back to her. Their landlady, Mrs. Esposito, was asking questions about why they used more candles than electricity. Keeping up appearances was important with the No-Majs. But it was likely an old warning. Outdated. Thankful that Tina was working on a case until late that night, Queenie had left the apartment with the door locked, the candles burning inside.

 

He'd been waiting for Queenie on the underground stairs for close to an hour. In fairness, he had been early by more than twenty minutes, meaning she was on technicality only close to half an hour late. All the same, finding Jacob sitting down, looking like a brave, half-frozen teddy bear prompted her to kiss him on sight. "Oh honey," she breathed, her soft-gloved fingers caressing his bone-chilled cheeks. "Baby, I'm so sorry I kept you here so long."

Jacob gave a feeble shrug, but his smile was abashedly genuine. "Aw, don't worry 'bout it. Anyways, I'll be able to talk to you better once my face thaws. Sure hope they serve the strong stuff in here!" He tapped on the door.

She beamed. "Well, let's go inside and find out!" Linking her arm around his with no hesitancy, Queenie led Jacob into the bar. The song of the hour was a slow one, a little percussion and piano, skipping beats right into her heart. She loved it. Was it too soon to dance? Probably, although Jacob would have done it if she said something. And yet, as refreshing as it was to be indulged without being considered too forward, she'd never deign to take advantage of this gem among mankind, wizards included.

"Hey Goldie," he said. "Have you ever been in one of these?"

A bit of her effervescent cheer dulled. It was her own fault, she'd told him her name was Goldie Stein, mostly to avoid the attention of any wizard keeping tabs on him. Tina had told her before that sometimes when a non-magical person participated in enough wizarding affairs, memory removal was followed by discretionary observation. Then again, Jacob's memories had been Obliviated along with the whole city. Who was going to keep tabs on all that? She flashed a dimple and said, "Never in one like this kind." _But in the other kind_ , she thought, inwardly crestfallen, _I was with you_. Every day, at work, at home - the fear of Jacob remembering who she was, what she was - rocked her nerves to the brink. And every time she saw him, that was the only thing she wanted in the whole world. Well, that and for Tina to eat something other than hot dogs. Taking a pair of shots to a table, Queenie used Jacob's inner dialogue to cue their conversation points. Goldie's gotta be too good for this joint. "I like the privacy of it all," she grinned. "Haven't you ever, I don't know, wanted to do something harmlessly forbidden?"

"Oh yeah." Jacob took a swig of his drink. _How about that_ , he was thinking. _I really can feel the blood coming back into my face again._ Queenie smiled as he continued, "One time, when I was applying for a bank loan to start my bakery, this guy left behind this...uh I don't know. But it looked really valuable and I put it in my pocket. Don't know why. I guess I could've used it as collateral for the loan. But I didn't." Queenie's smile stayed in place, but she felt as if she'd just heard a raven caw in her ear. Her breath racing like a rabbit, she combed through his foremost thoughts. Jacob didn't remember names, or creatures. He didn't even really remember what the guy with the valuable object looked like. The events of that day were a haze, and the next, last thing he remembered about it was opening his suitcase to find it full of those objects, with a note requesting that he use them as collateral. Queenie couldn't believe she'd never picked it up before now, this memory he was thinking of at least a few hours a day. Between him and Tina, Queenie guessed she was slipping in her Legilimen talents.

Jacob must have taken her silence as disinterest. His thoughts spoke for him again - _I hope Margo's all right_.

Queenie blinked. "Who's Margo?"

"Huh?" It was hard to say which one of them was more shocked. "Did I say something about Margo?"

She managed a tight nod. "Oh, Margo's this old homeless lady I met outside. She was real upset and I gave her a bag of hand pies. I thought I'd check on her later." Very few in this day and age - in any day of age, in fact - would approach strangers with such open generosity.

"Ain't that the sweetest!" said Queenie at last. 

"Oh shucks, you woulda done the same."

They laughed, the moment saved. But then...it faltered. _I don't think I told her about Margo. She knew though. Just the same as she knew me before we met..._ Jacob's trust in her, trust in himself, it wasn't going to keep up under this weight.

It was decided for her. "Baby..." she whispered, leaning in close. "I wanna be honest with you right now. More honest than I've ever been with you before. 'Cause you can say it, you've got questions."

"Oh." Jacob lowered his glass. He looked like a bird had just cawed in his ear now, as well.

Queenie looked around her first. Few were left in the bar, save for three men engaged in sports talk.  "It's all right," she said bracingly. "Mr. Kowalski...do you believe in magic?"


	2. Beware Of Quodpots

Dreams were part of an infinite pool of the abstract, the untouched - earned through simple formula: Base to summit, summit to base. The hike it took to get through a day at MACUSA headquarters was brutal on the mind, body and soul; and plummeting through one's way to sleep was swiftly accomplished. The big catch was that falling asleep at MACUSA also brought about dreams that were very much like the day: Brutal.

By the time Tina had climbed back up the mountain and into consciousness, the side of her mouth was stuck to the top of her desk and her arms were sprawled aimlessly around her head. Mrs. Esposito's daughter liked to throw her cloth dollies out the third story and watch them land lopsided in the street - Tina had no doubt that was what she must have looked like for the past few hours.

There was no sound of life around her. It was always a telltale sign that it was time to call it a night when all of the clockwork that had been running MACUSA busy died, and the janitorial staff started shining the marble and steel headquarters to reflection. She groaned, her thoughts beginning to race and sputter, then start up again like a tired engine. She had fallen asleep at her desk while staring at a copy of Juniper Wiseman's last will and testament; at one point, Tina's vision stretched and blurred at a name that couldn’t decide whether it was Felicity or simply Elf.

Then, in spite of how many times she pinched the bridge between her eyes and slapped herself in the face, in the end she blinked into darkness. And now she was up at one in the morning, trying to recall the reason that she felt like she'd be harboring a glower in her soul until she died. Her dream - her nightmare, really, had been a lye-scented headache wrapped in a necktie.

Abernathy. Tina wrinkled her nose at the name as though it was something unpleasant, like an insect. Tina's dream had started with candy. An investigation led by the Magical Congress of the United States of America had enough protocol directions to reach the torch of Lady Liberty. Things like mandatory status reports, Veritaserum requests (hard to come by), or - her personal favorite - the limit for which No-Majs could be treated with magic, prior to Obliviation. Tina saw the chokehold on their interactions with the No-Maj witnesses as an impediment - if Aurors were going to have to extinguish their memories after they were questioned, then what was the point of refraining the use of a little spell that could clarify their stories? After the first forty days at MACUSA, however, Tina had realized that there was only one rule that mattered: Always carry candy. With all of the things there were to argue about, candy helped her keep quiet. Candy helped her keep her job.

She'd been dreaming she had a piece of caramel-flavored taffy rolling around her teeth when Abernathy Apparated into her office. He said, "I would lay off that stuff for awhile, Tina. I hear it has a terrible effect on your mouth!"

"I'll make sure I brush my teeth later," she'd heard herself say, sounding like another person. A vaguely annoyed person.

Abernathy had raised his eyebrows. "Well, in between that, I want you off the Juniper Wiseman case. Indefinitely." Without letting her have the chance to challenge him, he continued, "No one in the top chain likes your attitude these days, Tina. I mean, beforehand you were headstrong, but at least you gave Picquery and your other superiors the respect they deserved."

Madame President Picquery, as beautiful as a bouquet of flowers and as friendly as a rock. Tina wondered how she'd feel about Abernathy referring to her sans title. Instinctively, she took a mint out of her pocket and popped it into her mouth.

He continued, "Then you came back after that English oddball gave you the commendation, and now you think you can - "

The sweet, fresh taste of the mint was melting quickly - what else did Tina have in her long coat? A small cherry lollipop!

"Yes please," she said aloud, much to Abernathy's confusion, firmly placing the small stick in between her lips. Tina had dreamed she was sucking most of the syrup from the lollipop as she waited out Abernathy's blustering vent.

"Now, you can either go home like you were planning, or take a case that I've picked out just for you. A speakeasy, No-Maj. One of us is getting way too bold around some of them."

 _Quiet. Just be quiet._ Tina had swallowed, her eyes narrowing. She listened to Abernathy - "superior" this and "disgrace" that - and silenced herself with a piece of chewing gum.

"And if you don't want it, someone else will." He turned his back to her. Now that he was finally done, Tina had dreamed she spat the chew into the trash.

"So," she said as he turned to leave. "Are you still mad that Queenie never called for you?" Tina had woken up some time after she'd had her winning comeback. She promised herself that the next time she woke up, she'd hide Abernathy's soap collection.

"Uhn." She yawned now, jerking her head to attention. "Carienne?" A paper butterfly fluttered its wings at her elbow. It took Tina's hands a whole minute to pick it up - thanks to the way they'd been spread across her desk, they felt strange, separate from the rest of her body. The butterfly opened into a note from Tina's assistant.

_Miss Tina_

_I tried to wake you eleven times so please don't be mad at me. Madam President Picquery has requested that you take a leave from the Wiseman case and get some rest. I believe she is right because you are spending so many hours here, but because this suggestion was passed on by a source I distrust, I think you should be wary of Mr. Abernathy._

A dread filled her like a dark mist pouring into an empty space.

It hadn't been a dream. Was it four, five hours ago that it had happened? Ever since she'd been reinstated as an Auror, she felt more comfortable undermining the rules. Seeing firsthand how her superiors could hold her life in their hands for the worst intentions made her more ready to stand her ground. Some people weren't responding well to that. However, the remaining Second Salem people would start a charity for stray black cats before Tina followed Abernathy's contradictory orders.

The letter finished:

_I saw he had a case in hand, and it looks like he wants someone in the department to check out a No-Maj speakeasy. There's been talk going on about the magical mixing with non-magical beings, and one of our neighbors seems ready to risk exposure. Thought you should know._

_-Carienne_

Tina reread the message, hard and locked. Until now, the engine of her mind had been tripping along in an unknown direction. When it finally clicked, she saw it and crashed into her desk. "Oh no." Where was that case assignment? Tina turned wildly until she saw the file Abernathy had left lying on her desk.

"No," she whispered.

 

"First thing I want you to know is - my name ain't Goldie." This disclosure was going poorly already, right from the first admission. Jacob's great-grandmother had warned him once that it was often easier to convince someone with a lie than the truth. That philosophy had been half lost on him until this moment. He was torn now, because the woman formerly known as Goldie was struggling like a dog that had a foot stuck in concrete. Or maybe he was. Jacob saw her anguish and wanted to tell her it would be okay, but until he was able to digest the full confession, he himself was stuck in the wait.

"What is it?" he said at last.

There was an uncertain, rueful turn of her lips before she answered, "Queenie." Then, because she had a funny knack for knowing a question before he could ask it, she rushed on with, "I had to, though. I figured there might be people watching you, watching me - we had to throw them off." "Okay..." For a moment, all Jacob could do was stare into the pit of his empty glass, and let the reflective streaks around the rim play tricks on his eyes. He could see her, not Goldie but Queenie, in a whole new light. The thing was, she did seem more like a Queenie. She seemed like something more, too - more than what she was. But more than what?

"So, you're hiding from people?" Jacob ventured a guess.

The woman - Queenie, opened her mouth but failed to eject any words. _Oh boy_ , he thought. "You're hiding...from Al Capone?"

Queenie started. "What do you mean?"

 _Please don’t be hiding_ with _Al Capone_ , Jacob prayed. The mob could shut down his bakery, and it was really the only thing he had in the world. He'd won the well-wishes of a Good Samaritan for that one - the chance for a repeating incident didn't exist.

"I'm not involved with the mob, hon." The ghost of a sad thought wisped about in Queenie's wide-eyed gaze, and the fantastic, unbelievable idea occurred to Jacob that she really did know what he was thinking.

"You do, don't you?" he whispered aloud, awestruck as she gave a small nod. Her smile was apologetic, much in the way of a clumsily-enacted curtsy.

Queenie reached for his hand across the table. "I can tell you something else, too. Something I've been wanting you to know for awhile, but tonight it finally won out." Instinctually, Jacob folded his fingers over her hand. Her palm was cold, smooth as petals. "The man who gave you the collateral for your bakery. He wasn't a stranger."

A slight tingle swept through him. It was hot and it was cold, and all of it the shadow of recollection. How could he sense the absence of a memory but not the memory itself? "Who was he?" Queenie's smile was back, brighter this time probably because he was still there, still listening. She looked ready to answer with the whole story, until her focus was lost. A troubled expression overcame her, one that Jacob found difficult to translate. But she was staring past him, right over his shoulder, so he turned around to see three guys around a table, toasting their glasses and talking in low voices.

"Quodpot," murmured Queenie. Her posture was tight as a wire.

"What's that?"

She took a sharp breath. "Quodpot! That's what one of them is thinking about."

"Wait," said Jacob, trying to catch his ground. "What does that even mean?" For the first time since he'd met her, Queenie had a steely guard in her glance as she looked at the men behind him.

"It means they're not supposed to be here," she said, resolute. "And that we've gotta go."

When they rose from their seats, however, it triggered the attention of the three men, who swarmed around them the way that wasps did while waiting for something below them to make a move. “Hey boys,” said Queenie, crossing her arms. “Fancy meeting co-workers in a place like this.” The middle one, who seemed to be the leader, said, “Queenie Goldstein. I think we’ve seen enough to bring you in.”

He pulled a thin stick from his coat sleeve. “Now, hold on Quodpots,” said Jacob, bearing no clue for what he’d just called the fellow with the stick. But he moved in between them, moving them away from her. “Look, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what she’s done. Whatever Goldie or Queenie, or Blondie whatsername…she deserves a pardon.” Jacob’s cheeks burned, his rapid breath surging oxygen into his heart and making him bold. He was quite proud of himself. For Queenie, however, the spark of defiance appeared to have been extinguished. He realized she was now merely waiting.

“Her fate will be determined after we reset yours,” said the man to the left. Reset?

“Please,” said Queenie softly. “Please don’t make him go through this again. Don’t make me -.”

Her appeal fell on deaf ears. “We’re gonna have to clean your memories real good this time,” the third man said to Jacob, raising his own stick.

“Goodbye, Mr. Kowalski.”

Despite how silly they all looked, Jacob shuddered. He didn’t know what they could do with those funny twigs, and he certainly didn’t want to…

“OBLIVIATE!” A blast of light suddenly struck all three of the men, and they toppled to the floor like a set of game dice.

Standing a few feet back from them was a woman with a gray long coat and a matching neat hat over her short dark hair. She had her arms crossed like Queenie, only hers was out of pure frustration. “Crickets, you two! What the hell is this?”

Stunned, Jacob turned to Queenie. “I don’t know, Queenie. What is this?”

Queenie sighed. “Jacob. This is my sister Tina.”


	3. Light That Was Never There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Writing is hard, working is hard, and trying to do a decent job on both in one day is like pulling nails from the floorboards with my fingers (at least, that's what I think it must be like!)
> 
> Please let me see the value in my work and leave some comments!

Just before her first year at Ilvermorny, Queenie’s receptiveness to human thoughts had surfaced and soon made her somewhat of a prodigy among her classmates. Sure, she still studied because she enjoyed learning, but only what she wanted to learn. For everything else, there had been easier paths to good grades.

At Ilvermorny,Tina had worked hard. Worked hard, and worked honestly. She’d earned every grade she got, for better or worse. And even with seeing Queenie rise to the top, she’d retained her grudging silence. Of course, that was before Tina’s silence had sparked a cold and furious fourth year for Queenie.

And now, upon evacuating the speakeasy, Queenie couldn't say which was frostier - the temperature outside or Tina's attitude. Her older sister marched on in front of them, her pace as brisk as the air that stung their cheeks. She wasn't bothering to use Occlumency to shield her thoughts, so Queenie could hear them all of them. She wished she didn't; each one was another bitter nail to swallow.

Meanwhile, Jacob seemed to be pulling himself along with the expectation that he'd be told about the Quodpots with the little wooden sticks. At least there was one thing that Queenie could set right. "Quodpot," she said, shivering along on the dark city street as Tina led them onward. "It's a sport. The players race to put a ball into a cauldron before it explodes." No response. Queenie tried to replay the explanation in her head, but she supposed that simply the words ‘cauldron’ and ‘explodes’ were enough to give someone a torch and pitchfork.

"Haven't heard of no one playing a sport like that," mumbled Jacob at last. Then he said, "Where are we going?"

"Your place," was Tina's answer from ahead.

Queenie knew Jacob was about to ask Tina how she knew where he lived, but she couldn't wait any longer. "Tina -." Tina stopped and whirled on them.

"We were set up! Abernathy found out about you two, and he gave me the speakeasy case because he knew I'd show up. He doesn't have to be some genius to figure out who Obliviated those guys at the bar! Really, Queen - didn't you see that one coming?"

"I read minds, not the future!" protested Queenie. A tentative Jacob raised his hand. "Uh, maybe this isn't the best time to ask, but what's Obliviate mean?"

Queenie took a breath. A tear fought to keep from slipping onto her lower eyelashes. "Obliviate is a spell that erases people's memories. Jacob, sweetie - what I was trying to tell you earlier was that I…I’'m a witch." There was a long, heavy silence between the three. A crippling idea occurred to Queenie during this time, one that she’d never dreamed she had to worry about: It was possible that she was losing him.

But all Jacob muttered was, "Uh-huh. Okay…I'm still standing, so I don’t know – am I taking this well?" His glance dashed between the women uncertainly.

"Mr. Kowalski," said Tina with a shake of her head. “For both times now, you’ve taken this news better than anyone we’ve ever met.” Tina was tired, Queenie knew. She could read the day’s events waving off of her sister, and they rubbed the resulting stress into her own. _But please, Teenie_ , she thought, wishing Tina could hear her thoughts for once – _a little sensitivity!_

The horror that struck Jacob looked painful on his face. "Wait," he whispered, in a voice that made Queenie cringe. "Was I already Obliviated?" They didn't have to nod, but they did. With this revelation, it was apparent that he really did need to sit down after all.

Her expression stark, Tina approached and linked both of her hands with theirs. Queenie's body felt the slightly nauseating pull of Disapparation, and they landed in a darkened apartment. Jacob’s apartment. Tina, being the only magical person besides Newt Scamander to have been in Jacob’s home before, drew out her wand and whispered, “ _Lumos.”_ The wand tip lit like a tiny star, casting a blue-white glow throughout the room. Any chance for sensitivity toward Jacob’s transition into their world may as well have Disapparated by now.

“I know,” she said to him, a quaver in her voice. “It’s too much.”

He stared, speechless. Meanwhile, Tina spoke in a low voice. “You two are gonna have to go somewhere, someplace that won’t have a problem with you being together.”

“Like where?” whispered Queenie. But she could see it in Tina’s head, and the option was so obvious, so perfect. “You think we should go to England?” Wizards in England – mostly the entire UK, in fact – were much more generous in allowing association with No-Majs. They could do it – they all could, if Tina…

“What do you mean, you wouldn’t come?” said Queenie, reading the sadness that shone in Tina’s dark eyes correctly. For Jacob, this – all of it - was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time. Because, evidently thinking they had forgotten him, he announced, “Well, I ain’t movin’ to some British village. Saw enough of ‘em back in the war. What do they have there that we don’t got here?”

Tina opened her mouth, thought better of it and closed abruptly. Queenie had never seen Jacob so contentious. He really wasn’t taking this well, after all. She tried, “We’ve got a friend in England, okay? No, listen, there’s someone out there who can help us…but no. Okay, we won’t,” she said softly, her heart sinking, full of tears she wished she could cry.

“What is it?” murmured Tina. Queenie just shook her head and turned, gathering comprehension from the surrounding furniture and the framed pictures. Jacob had a home, family and friends, and a job. He had a bakery! How could she ever have hoped he’d want to give all of that up?

“Queenie?” Tina’s uncertain tone nudged her into speaking.

“I’m very sorry for all the trouble we’ve caused you, Jacob Kowalski,” she told him, a tear finally slipping its way down her cheek. She took Tina’s hand in hers. Jacob moved a foot forward, and she thought for a hopeful second that he would stop them…but he stood instead, mouth agape. That was the last thing she saw before she and Tina Disapparated back to their own home.

 

It should have been a relief to return to a place where Queenie could sleep and stir some happier memories from her Pensieve. However, the sympathy Tina had been offering her broken heart faded much quicker than Queenie needed, and it was all due to the smell of burning wax.

“Really, Queenie?” Tina threw down her hat, still clenching her fist on its front. Queenie winced – not because of the display of anger but because she knew this was the highest level of anger Tina had ever reached with her. It came just below the reactive strike she’d delivered Mary Lou Barebone a little over a year ago. And now Tina was both angry tired enough to leave her mind freely open for Queenie to examine.

“The candles,” she realized, tempted to curse.

“Yeah,” said her sister. “Remember, the Gladys family moved here because their son burned down their last place in Queens. He can’t help himself, and he’s only twelve years old! Mrs. Esposito doesn’t wanna take the chance that he sees all this -” Tina gestured to the walls, which now flickered with the brown and gold of tiger’s eye, “or else we can kiss our lease goodbye!”

“Sorry, sis,” whispered Queenie. “You know, I tried to find that memory in the Pensieve, of you telling me about the candles and all. But instead, I found…” Tina raised her eyebrows. Was this a good idea, for Queenie to be touching this subject on tonight of all nights?

“You found the one of me investigating Wiseman’s death,” said Tina slowly.

Queenie stifled another set of tears. “I just wish you’d have talked to me about it. You could always tell me stuff, you know?” As usual, whatever she tried in order to make her sister open up more resulted in Tina closing inward further. Yet she ignored the warning signs, and Tina’s pained attempt at stoicism, and pressed, “Why couldn’t you go to London? You’ve got someone who likes you, Tina – you get letters, and books and you can’t even say the guy’s name?” The wind leaving her speech, Queenie knew at once that she’d gone too far. Because Tina wasn’t sharing her thoughts anymore – she was blocking them.

Everything that Tina was emanating was so tense, so cold. Despite her anger, her voice was controlled. “I can’t go to London because I have maybe two days before I get put on trial for Obliviating Abernathy’s agents. I’ll lose my job, and my wand will be snapped, and if I’m really lucky I won’t go to prison. Don’t read my letters anymore, Queenie.” She waved her wand once across the room, snuffing all of the candles into darkness.

Queenie was still standing in the middle of the dark room after Tina was in bed. She was still standing as the blue light of dawn washed into the apartment, and she’d never even noticed it was there.


	4. Sounds Like The Talkies

_Dear Newt,_

_Thank so much for your manuscript. When you come back we’ll have to go over the differences between a Lethifold and a Dementor. If I ever meet a floating black cloak of death, I guess I should know whether it’s going to eat me or just my soul – actually, now that I think of it, the differences won’t really matter. But the Patronus charm. Warm memories, happy thoughts and rainbows…that sounds just like me, right?_

_In any case, the book will give me something to do while I sit around waiting to be fired or arrested – again. You know, I used to think of myself as sensible, or responsible. Yeah, boring too, I guess. I probably should have thought different after trying to hex Mary Lou Barebone for hitting her son. I was so busy regretting what I’d lost that I didn’t take the time to figure out what it meant._

_And now, after you’ve come and gone, and I’ve put myself in another situation, I can see that maybe I was always meant to be the opposite of sensible and responsible. I’m more impulsive, and reckless. As far as boring goes, I don’t know. You’re the one who has the traveling circus for luggage, so I must be drywall in comparison. I know by this time that I will never send out this message, but it’s only one of at least fifteen one-sided conversations that we’ve already had. Queenie can read minds but she still doesn’t get why I don’t talk about you. She doesn’t get that if I do, I don’t think I’d ever be able to st –_

 

Tina crunched up the letter in her hand and knocked it, alongside her pen, to the back of her desk. Newt Scamander wouldn’t want to know that much about her – even she didn’t want to know that much about her. It still stung as a slap on the face to have been through an almost-execution, a sentence issued by Percival Graves. More so than his false claims, the warranting for her arrest from Picquery herself wouldn't make sense to Tina even a year later. She had trusted the law, and its governing leaders, and nowadays she was lucky enough if she trusted herself. People in power, she realized, were more susceptible to corrupted morals. Working for an employer who was hiding that he was really a maniacal Dark Wizard with delusions of grandeur certainly didn't argue against that vision. But, contrary to her present attitude and actions, she had no intention of quitting just yet. Because, apart from Queenie, if she didn't have her work then what would she have left?

She couldn’t say exactly what it was that brought her into the office after everything that had happened last night, but the half-borne idea that she would be found out sooner if she disappeared seemed correct. Ironically, walking into headquarters with her head held high had been quite easy once she took on a new perspective: _Hey there MACUSA, my hands are still cleaner than yours._

Unless you counted the ink smudges on her palms. The evidence of wallowing was all over her hands. She took her wand and lightly traced the marks on her skin with its tip, the mess fading with the warmth from the Cleaning spell. The process stopped, however, when she noticed an imprint above her right wrist: _You’ve come and gone._

Well, that was helpful. For the sake of distraction more than enjoyment of work, Tina looked at the wall in front of her. She’d tacked on two articles and five photographs for the Juniper Wiseman case. “Who’d want to hurt you, Mr. Wiseman?” she muttered, squinting at the print for better sight. Tina hadn’t known the man very well, but she’d heard enough to feel like she had. The house with more ghosts than a cemetery, the safe with the books containing the newest invented curses and oldest love spells. She’d seen plenty for herself on a visit regarding a spider that had been transfigured into a mysterious crystal bottle. Juniper dabbled in potions and traded in magical antiquities. He’d even tried on that day to purchase the small watch she wore on a chain around her neck, but respected its value to her when she revealed it was the last heirloom of her mother’s family.

On her desk, the copy of his last will and testament was still lying open, unfurled. Reminding. Tina pulled the document towards her once again and skimmed down the list.

_Being of sound mind and body,_

_I, Juniper Foxworth Wiseman, do so bequeath to the following:_

_Paprika Tillamook – the remainder of my Felix Felicis potion._

_Melanie and Kit Grantland – everything in the clock_

_Folsom Perry – the Aquara Box, on provision that he ensures Maggie, seller of the New York Times from the stand next to his hot dog cart, receives every artifact of mine that has not been aforementioned._

_The family of Elias Bane – Sergei_

Tina could only imagine this was a lawyer’s worst nightmare – the sole welcoming detail was Paprika Tillamook’s inheritance of a luck potion. The next three ranged in various degrees of bemusement, and when she looked at the Bane family, she had to cover an audible snort. Elias Bane, always looking for the next groundbreaking Dark Arts weapon. Tina had been trying to arrest him for years, but Mr. Graves was insistent that Bane was a harmless eccentric. Of course, knowing what she knew about Graves now, Tina wouldn’t be surprised if Bane turned out to be Grindelwald’s eccentric cousin.

But the items he was willing away - was it possible that Juniper Wiseman was killed for one, or even all, of these kinds of things? Tina thought about it, hard. What was it he’d said around her when she’d agreed to not write him up an official warning from MACUSA for illegal, magical experimentation? She looked at the snippet of words on her wrist, and Wiseman’s parting words to her came to mind.

_Trinkets come and go, Miss Goldstein. When you bear something that ties you to your very soul, you are connected to the most untranslatable of substances._

Souls...the untranslatable substance? Tina frowned for a moment, letting the clue sort itself out.

“Miss Tina?” Carienne Holloway, her petite mousy haired assistant, was standing in the entrance to her office. If anyone could call it an office, that was – Tina had seen fireplaces that were bigger than hers.

"Miss Tina," she said again, looking warily over her shoulder, "Mr. Abernathy -."

"Is looking for me," finished Tina, standing from her desk. "I know. Don't tell him I'm here, okay?"

Perplexed, Carienne stepped aside to let Tina leave. "And if he asks? What should I say?"

"Tell him I'm at the candy shop!" Tina called from over her shoulder as she passed by. _After all_ , she thought, _who says you can’t go trick-or-treating in January?_

 

 

Jacob had never met a loaf of bread that couldn’t brighten his day better than the sun before. Moving around in his bakery, inhaling the sweet aroma of fresh cake and doughnuts, was the cure upon which Kowalski’s was built. And now, all he could think about, all he could try not to think about, was Queenie and her interrupted hint. The man who’d donated the silver eggshells for Jacob’s collateral…didn’t he have a British accent? He hadn’t said much, save for “so sorry!” in passing. And Queenie had tried to get him to run away with her to England. To a “friend there who could help.”

He could actually feel that gap in his memory, as frustrating as a lost puzzle piece. The outlining shape remained, and a phantom of what it should have looked like was just enough for both filling his imagination and trying his patience. Yet some part of him did remember, didn’t it? Kowalski’s top-selling glazed roll was in the shape of a long haired monkey with big mounds for eyes. It sat on a shelf beside a biscuit that looked like a large rhinoceros. For some reason - and he didn’t know how - Jacob sensed his creations were connected to this memory.

The smell of blackened crust fetched him from his reverie. Jacob was fanning the smoke from the woodstove when he heard the bell on the door jingle. First customer of the day! Putting on the best smile he could manage under the circumstances, he turned around. In spite of himself, his smile fell. Queenie watched him with trepidation. Jacob didn’t know what to say. He knew he needed a day or two – and more than a drink or two, to be honest – to adjust to the changes her secrets had brought into his life. _Be strong_ , he told himself, looking into her luminous dark green eyes. “Look, I’m sorry,” he began, “but I don’t think -.”

Queenie’s face crumpled. Tears streamed from those luminous eyes while a high-pitched sob caught in her throat.

Alarmed, Jacob forgot everything he was about to say and pulled her into his arms. “Ah, it’s okay. What’s wrong, angel?” he asked, stroking her soft golden curls.

Queenie pressed her head against his shoulder held a hand to her mouth, still apparently fighting down her cries. It was the most heart-wrenching sight Jacob could have ever imagined – Queenie never cried. She was never unhappy.

_Did I do this?_ he wondered in horror.

She sniffled. “I’m so sorry! I know I shouldn’t be here, I just couldn’t go anywhere else…”

“What happened?”

“Tina. My sis and I never fight. Now she’s not speaking to me and I need to make it up to her,” she moaned, her breath ending on a gasp.

Slightly relieved he wasn’t entirely responsible for his angel’s tears, Jacob pulled out two chairs that had been leaning against the wall and beckoned Queenie to sit. He brought her a cup of milk and a cookie, then sat down across from her. She bit into the cookie with a heartbroken smile, and said, “This is delicious.”

“Mom always gave me one of these after a bad day,” he admitted.

With a nod, she sipped from her cup. “I know I hurt you real bad, Jacob -.”

He waved a hand, somehow feeling as though he’d hurt her more. “Nah. I’m fine. What about your sister?”

“She works with those guys at the speakeasy last night. What she did to them was a serious offense, and she did it for us.” Queenie counted off her fingers. “Because of me, she might get fired. Even arrested. Then we got home and had it out over the candles, but I swore I couldn’t find the memory in the Pensieve of her telling me not to use them.”

When Jacob had served in the military, he’d been forced to bunk with Swede named Ulrich. Friendly fellow, as far as he could tell, and Jacob was sure they’d have found much in common had his ears been able to work past the accent. He must have been making the same expression of confusion to Queenie, because she clarified, “A Pensieve is a bowl I put my memories in. I must have misplaced the one of Tina telling me about the neighbor boy who’d like to climb through our window and burn our place down.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jacob with a nod, understanding even less than before. Before Queenie could clarify, however, he pressed on. “Is there anything else Tina’s mad at you for?”

Queenie considered. “I did read one of her personal letters,” she said slowly. “Strike three, I guess.”

Anyone, even Tina Goldstein, could forgive the candles and the letter. Jacob chose to focus on strike one. “What does your sister do for a living?”

“She’s an Auror. An investigator. Saves the good guys, takes down the bad ones.”

Jacob raised his eyebrows, impressed. A female detective - when was the progressiveness of his society going to catch up with Queenie’s?"

“Okay, so let’s think. What’s something that could keep an…Auror? Out of the slammer?”

Queenie frowned, but it didn’t seem to be out of dissatisfaction with the question. She turned her head, as though she were seeing his shop for the first time. Then she stood and picked a rhinoceros biscuit off the shelf. “Tina’s been in trouble before,” she said softly. Jacob, rapt with attention, let her continue. “You know, she struck a No-Maj woman once. A non-magical person, hon,” she added as Jacob was preparing to ask. “The lady was hitting her kid, and Teenie, she stopped it. They stripped her of her position for that. For a while, it looked like she was gonna be stuck down in the Wand Permit Department forever.”

“What happened?”

The corner of her mouth quirked. “Well, her and me, we ran into a couple of fellas and we all did a great service to the wizarding community. That earned her a big fat promotion.”

She was staring at Jacob with such warmth, he realized he’d been missing something important. “So you’re saying, me and Mr. English Guy are the couple of fellas who helped save your world. And I still got Obliviated?”

Pain flitted across Queenie’s face. “Well, I didn’t want you to be. None of us did. You volunteered, sweetie. Said it was for the best.”

“Oh.” A crushing sensation struck his composure. _That sort of sounds like me_ , he thought. Then his brain caught up to where hers was drifting. “So all we gotta do is get your sister another promotion?”

Queenie paused. A bright smile lit her eyes. “She’s been working on another case, and no one’s listenin’ to her! She solves that case, they could give her a pardon. Jacob, you’re so brilliant!”

Jacob rose; he couldn’t help it, he felt pretty brilliant himself. “So you’re gonna help Tina crack a case. This sounds like something that deserves to be in the talkies!”

His angel winked. “We’ll certainly be talkin’ about it.”

“We’ll?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t think I’d do this without you?” Queenie was positively radiant. Now, this was the woman he loved. This was the woman who’d loved him even before he could remember it.

Jacob couldn’t help grinning. “Sweetheart, you sure as hell ain’t doin’ this without me!” It was hard to say, because he couldn’t remember anything quite like this ever happening to him. But Jacob had met this feeling before, and his life seemed to have been waiting for this whole time just to meet it again.


	5. Through Eyes Of Newt

The Kamchiya

25 km south of Varna, Bulgaria

It was a pity that Lazar Draganov didn't talk. He'd been sold, tagged with the warning that he was "a mage of few words," but it was under the assumption that he merely disliked conversation. And now he was leading the way through icy swamps and marshes, with the crunching of his feet in snow the only sound being made under a bitter gray sky. The guide offered no verbal assistance to his struggling client, which led the latter to the conclusion that Lazar, bearing all the personality of a compass, was incapable of human speech. Or else, he just merely disliked Newt.

On his initial trip to the Kamchiya, Newt Scamander had stayed the week in Varna. He wasn't typically one to ogle at the background, but when the sky painted the sea periwinkle blue and the wind carried hints of a sunlit forest in its scent, it seemed acceptable to spend a little more time not strictly on business. But for work's sake - Merlin's beard, if there was anything that could ever mirror the inner world of his briefcase, it had to be in that part of Bulgaria. Distant mountains, vineyards, hills and hot springs outlined a city of lakes and golden cathedrals. And beautiful though it was, Newt had not come for the view. He'd come for the Kamchiya - the river bordering Varna. The Longoz forests stood out from the river like stalks of sunkissed peridot, and the creatures harbored within them were of a far more priceless worth to Newt. The rare beasts that Muggles had classified as flycatcher birds and tessellated water snakes had been his main objects of study that summer, but the surrounding fauna was so diverse and fascinating Newt had allowed himself a moment - just one - to consider perhaps moving to Bulgaria in early retirement.

Returning for the winter had effectively killed that dream; instead of periwinkle skies behind golden cathedrals and creatures - both magical and non - hiding in the Longoz, he had ominous dark specters weaving through the trees. And there was Lazar, the mute. Or possible Durmstrang graduate. Newt had decided, at some point between the frozen river and a snowbank into which Lazar had assisted him falling, that his personality was nowhere near loathsome enough to warrant non-existential treatment on its own. Durmstrang and his former school, Hogwarts, had been sporting a notable rivalry for the better part of fifty years, allegedly about something to do with the last-held Triwizard Tournament. Newt couldn't remember; the gossip must have struck him bored, the way it always seemed to do.

Lazar, meanwhile, had been keeping the hood of his cloak up for so long, Newt could no longer picture what the dwarfish mage's face looked like. Could he even see where they were heading? Looking five trees ahead, there was a man-sized structure. It was a stone wall, dark and shiny, not a single drop of snow dressing its corners.

Newt withdrew his wand from his coat sleeve and gave an involuntary shudder. " _Point Me_ ," he muttered, and watched the wand spin for a half second before its abrupt halt. "Sorry, Mr. Draganov? I think we need to stop here." Newt hadn't expected a response, but he gave his guide a patient four-minute wait before clearing his throat again. "Mr. Draganov. Sir, these are the coordinates I have written down." But Lazar continued to crunch on through the ice and snow until he was indiscernible from the lumps of rock in the distance. Very reluctantly, Newt twirled his wand in looping, circular motions. Tiny flecks of snow began to gravitate towards it, collecting more flakes along its path. They swarmed before Newt, a curious cloud of white dust forming itself into a thinly veiled body. Before Lazar could escape his sight fully, Newt said to the snow formation, "Bring him back to me, will you? Oh, and nicely if you can, please!" He couldn't tell for sure, but the snow seemed to nod its agreement before it took off after its quarry.

_Magic is alive_. It wasn't the first time he'd thought that, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. When Lazar Draganov was dropped - very gently, as instructed - to face Newt at the wall, the taller wizard apologized a few more times before saying, "But this is where we're supposed to be!"

Lazar's baleful stare wasn't lost on Newt, so he tried, because using anything more polite than his current tone would likely land him in a wizard's duel with this mage, to be bolder. He didn't exactly have the greatest sources of inspiration for that aim - His brother Theseus always pushed for the most plainly spoken message imaginable, while Albus Dumbledore was disarmingly persuasive and could sell silver to an Occamy if he'd wanted. And Leta Lestrange would have simply run off with the proverbial silver. That and the Occamy with it. Which left only his American friends to whom he could look.. One in particular. What would personable, honest Jacob Kowalski say?

"All right, look. here, Mr. Draganov. You were highly recommended to me because of your extensive experience in this area, but you're not being paid to wander through it in silence. What is this?" He pointed at the wall. Lazar Draganov still gave no answer. A certain coldness settled within Newt that had nothing to do with the Bulgarian winter. His shoulders tightened as he mentally debated what he wanted to do. Finally, he did it. His hand knocked back Lazar's patchy black cloak hood. The mage made no effort to stop him, nor did he make any reactionary movement to protest. All he did was breathe, while Newt stared in sick horror. "Oh dear," he said softly.

 

***

"You're a lucky man, Mr. Scamander," remarked Stoyan back at Varna's main lodging house.

"Luckier than Lazar you mean?" replied Newt, his tone devoid of humor. _Did he really come to me in that condition and I didn't even notice?_ He'd been asking himself that ever since he'd Disapparated from the Longoz forest, leaving Lazar Draganov to stand there alone. Alone, freezing, and soulless.

With grim compassion, Stoyan said, "It was no longer Lazar, Mr. Scamander. Lazar Draganov was very loud, the life of the party as you might say."

Newt had just been thinking he couldn't feel any worse. "I would liked to have met him." He stared at the floor beneath his table, his breathing tense as though the thing that had taken away the true Lazar Draganov could rise from the ground. "You will send someone to retrieve him, won't you?"

The other man rubbed an index finger across his mustache, thinking. "Forgive me, sir, but nothing can be done for Mr. Draganov now. It would be dangerous to send someone back out there."

Newt understood, though a slight prickle of irritation fought to speak plainly. "I'm going back out there," he reminded Stoyan. "It's why I came in the first place."

"I see that, sir. And should you become lost in your cause, what is to be done with your belongings? Your case?"

His case. Stoyan was asking this even without knowing it was home to more than reference books and socks. It was home to Murtlaps, Erumpents, and a very kleptomaniacal Niffler. "Send it on to someone I know in America," he instructed.

Stoyan shrugged in response, clearly feeling awkward in this conversation. "Would you like this someone to have a message from you?"

_Dear Tina, I wish to entrust you with my most cherished possession, because in the short time in which we've known one another, I've met few others who are as strong and loyal and have as much heart as you do. I believe that you will have love in your heart for my creatures, and protect them as I would but can no longer do because I lost my soul to a Dementor in Bulgaria and now have only as much sense as a vegetable._

Newt cringed at the imaginary letter. "I'll have to think on that," he sighed.


	6. Cold Case Detective

The tantalizing smell of sugar and chocolate in the air was a warrant for distraction, but luckily for Queenie, Jacob didn't mind bringing fresh confections to the backroom pantry while she worked. It was quite sensible actually - Jacob could tend to his customers and still pop in every once in awhile to provide his input. Which was, thanks to a revealed interest in detective novels, astoundingly insightful. It was upon his recommendation that Queenie was now creating a list of everything she knew about the case. A list which presently illustrated the only known thread from the enigmatic web of Juniper Wiseman's death: the inexplicable behavior of the wizard himself.

"How's it goin' in here?" Jacob asked, approaching her table. He had a mug of cider in his hands. "I figured you could use a break from the cookies." Queenie managed a half-hearted smile as he set the mug down.

"Thanks, hon."  

"What's wrong?" She showed him her hand, which was cramped from an hour's endurance of the writing position. "I ain't even got nothin' new here," she said, her heart glum with disappointment. "All we know is somethin' fishy was goin' on with the guy before he croaked."

"Right," agreed Jacob. "'Cause he was a lonely, grumpy old kook who used to be a nice old kook." There was nothing but genuine encouragement in his tone, but Queenie was still berating herself for her lacking investigator's skills. He began, "Look, I been thinkin' about how we can get more information -."

"I know," interrupted Queenie, pained. "I know what you're gonna say." Jacob nodded, though with a bit of lost momentum that made her wish that she had let him finish his suggestion. "I'm sorry. It's a real good idea - but it could also get me into some real trouble. At work and with Tina." He came around and wrapped his soft fingers around her palm. The tension that bound her hand as taut as string began to slip, draining away with each moment in his grasp. _Just like magic_ , she thought with a smile.

"You know something?" he mused. "If you weren't a little bit scared, then you also wouldn't be brave to do it."

These words filled Queenie with love and warm sunlight, and the startling realization that she'd just been given a defining philosophy to live by. She rose, her smile feeling so bright it wanted nothing more than to press itself against his. Queenie swooped her free hand over to pick up the mug handle. "Well, I can say cheers to that, Mr. Kowalski." Breathing in the scent of apples and cinnamon first, she raised her lips to the mug and took a sip. _A girl could get used to this_.

***

Sun was wasted on the penthouse nestled just within the northeastern edge of Brooklyn. It was a pretty white paint job dressed over a relentless mourning presence - Tina could feel its melancholiness washing over her already. And although speaking to ghosts came with the territory of being an Auror, she' sometimes wished she didn't have to be reminded of the possibility that a dead person she interviewed could one day turn out to be someone she knew.

Unless that person was Juniper Wiseman. He was perfectly welcome to name his killer for Tina as far as she was concerned.

Once inside, she thought differently as she drew her coat in tighter. This icebox could use a few less spirits hanging in the shadows. With her energy draining into the penthouse like a leaky balloon, Tina took in the vague blue mist floating from the dining table to the fireplace and announced, "This is Porpentina Goldstein from MACUSA's Auror Department. I'm here about the wizard that last occupied your home." She paused, waiting to see what kind of reception she was earning. Ghosts were, in general, territorial - if they could not freely roam away from their haunting grounds, then they had no choice but to defend what they had. It made them highly sensitive to references that they were less than people, so Tina had to tread carefully when speaking of the late Juniper Wiseman's position within the household. Or, his current state of existence, if he was still around. Nothing upset the ghosts more than being reminded they were dead.

One healthy mortal living among countless forlorn identities. _How'd he manage it?_ Tina wondered as the blue mist began to materialize into shadowy, transparent shapes - human shapes. When the figures of several men and several more women had finished materializing, the first to speak was a plain-dressed girl with braided hair who seemed fifteen or so years old. "You know, my mother used to warn me about talking to strange women in trousers."

Tina refrained from an eyeroll - she'd nearly forgotten that ghosts also had no verbal filters. Well, if she didn't have to worry about the consequences of her actions, she guessed she wouldn't need one either. "Is your mother here with you?"

"No," said the girl, a thoughtful sheen in her pearlescent eyes. "It's a real shame too - I always love a chance to drive her bananas. But he didn't take her with me."

Tina, who'd been wearing her best, warm, Queenie-worthy smile to ease along the conversation, paused. "He? Mr. Wiseman brought you here? From where?"

A male ghost floated in front of the girl protectively. "From all over. What's this really about, young madam?"

"Is Juniper Wiseman here?" she said, thinking she could cut through a lot of trouble by going directly to the source. The ghost girl's eyes widened while a ripple of murmurs filled the room.

"He's gone!" a voice squeaked behind her.

"Thank Mercy,"" said another ghost.

Tina kept her eyes on the girl, who was fidgeting with her shimmering braid. "What's your name?" she asked softly. The ghost's mouth moved before any sound manifested. "

"Holly," she told her. "Holly Wiseman." Juniper Wiseman's daughter? A dam holding back a million questions creaked from pressure mounting. _Choose one, choose wisely Tina_ -

"How did Mr. Wiseman die?"

Holly Wiseman flashed a glare at her. "How did HE die? Who cares about him? What about what he did to ME?" She swirled into mist and faded out.

"What did he do to you?" said Tina, looking at the other spirits in utter bewilderment. The male ghost answered, "Same thing he did to all of us!"

Tina pressed her coat even more closely to her skin. The last Auror on record to have had a negative encounter with the dead needed two weeks to recover both physically and emotionally. Just being in the same vicinity as a handful of spirits felt enough to turn her insides to ice cubes - benevolent spirits or not, she needed to hurry before they drained her. "Are you saying Mr. Wiseman killed you? All of you?" she gasped, more from the cold than from shock. However, the ghosts seemed to appreciate the reaction, because conversation was lit around her.

"He collected us!"

"Not killed! Put us in a box!"

Box? Tina's brow scrunched in deep thought, remembering a line in Wiseman's will. "Would this be his Aquara box?"

The spirits chimed their assent. A breath caught in Tina's lungs. "What is it?" she asked, barely able to stifle her excitement. "Where is it?"

The ghost who had been protective of Holly Wiseman spoke with caution darting in between his glances at the others, "Beggin' your pardon, Miss Porpentina, but we'd better leave all that explaining for the next owner of the box."

"Why?"

"Because we are bound. Secret-Kept."

So the souls of Juniper Wiseman's Aquara Box were being guarded by a Secret-Keeper. Meaning any information about the ghosts and the Box would have to be divulged only by that one person.

 _Great._ Tina shrugged her shoulders, helpless. "I don't suppose any of you want to tell me how Mr. Wiseman died?" Hesitant glances. Tina officially hated interrogating the dead.

"You'd be better off asking why he's not here with us," said a voice from an invisible speaker. Holly's voice.

Cautious, Tina said, "Would you answer me if I asked?"

"No." Holly shimmered back into form in front of her. Her expression was scared. "It might come back," she whispered.

Tina nodded, a quiver in her heart understanding. Something that could truly threaten ghosts - it was rare, in cases that MACUSA had only heard of from overseas. She hissed under her breath as she turned back to the door, "Oh, Madame Picquery's gonna love this."

The entirety of New York City had been upturned once before with a single Obscurus. At least the Obscurial had only been a boy, a lonely, suffering boy who could have been reasoned with. Dementors couldn't be reasoned with. Technically, they couldn't even exist in this part of the country - too much urbanization and city development made it difficult for a band of them to feast on souls in peace. How many of them were there? More importantly, how did they get here?

 

***

As it happened, an Auror's job was much easier when done alongside another party. Queenie didn't know how she would have proceeded without Jacob. And she certainly wouldn't have managed as well if Tina hadn't done the legwork for the Wiseman murder case already. At first glance, Tina's office was a reality of bare essentials. A pinewood desk, a chair that made a standard horse saddle seem comfortable, and a large investigation board on the wall that was pinned with useful leads.

Back at the bakery, the only interesting thing that Queenie could remember was that Juniper Wiseman had been so lost in his mind that he'd been trying to will away his estate to a No-Maj at a newspaper stand. Jacob, inherently better at navigating the No-Maj community, had assured her he'd look into that clue, while Queenie scoured Tina's office for more information. If she hadn't been feeling so guilty over landing Tina in hot water, Queenie would have been tempted to throw a little mess around a corner or two. Stacks and containers of letter openers, pencils, parchment -

 _Goodness Gracious_ , she thought, examining the desk. _Teen, please just drop the ball and live a little for a minute or two_. As though she'd conjured it herself, the sound of paper scratched lightly on the floor with a shake of her foot under Tina's desk. Queenie reached and grabbed it, and spread the wrinkled page partway open. Tina had been writing a letter. Within the first paragraph, Queenie had forced herself to stop, to wipe a small tear from sliding down her cheek. She'd never thought of her sister as an unhappy person, but since Tina seemed very much who she was twenty years ago, it was a difficult matter to judge. And now -

"One thing at a time," Queenie whispered to herself, straightening up to see the board. A copy of Juniper Wiseman's will was prominently displayed, short as it was. Aquara Box? She frowned, puzzled. Then, even more puzzling on the way down the list, she finally read what Wiseman had given the Bane family to inherit. "Who the heck is Sergei?" she said aloud.

"Miss Goldstein?" a voice inquired.

Queenie started. "Mr. Abernathy," she said weakly, taking in his overpowering scent of soap. "I'm real sorry, I was just lookin' for my sister and she's not here -."

Looking malevolently curious, Abernathy said, "And why are you looking for Tina when she's not here? You two live together, don't you? I'm sure that if anyone knew where she was, you would."

"Well yeah," agreed Queenie, although her pulse was racing. She knew what was about to come next. She could read it unfolding in his mind, the idea like a cog turning his clock. "We don't always tell each other everything, though."

Abernathy smiled grimly. "I'm sure that's not true. If you'll come with me, Miss Goldstein, I think it's about time we had a chat."


End file.
